


Midnight Spectacular

by BloodstainedBlonde



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Based in S11 Crash site, Build up to Tuckington, Canon levels of Grimmons, Dancing, Fluff, Gen, Lighthearted, general red team shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodstainedBlonde/pseuds/BloodstainedBlonde
Summary: What’s your excuse this time,Tucker's look seems to say.What now?Wash falters. He looks around at the darkness threatening to press in, held back only temporarily by the light of the moon. He looks at the unprotected, unarmed men around him, and every instinct in him tells him to put his helmet back on and resume his patrols. He looks at Tucker, and he—Helooksat him. He doesn’t mean to stay looking, to draw out what was meant to be just a glance, but he gets caught in the weight of Tucker’s gaze, the narrowed eyes that don’t hide the unhappy twist to his lips, or his expectation that Wash will leave. That he will let them down again because they need more than just someone trying to be a leader. Not just somebody to protect them, but someone worth being stranded here with.He waits a moment, tests to see if the decision will leave him. Then —“So who’s my partner?"
Relationships: Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	Midnight Spectacular

**Author's Note:**

> The idea came to me in the middle of the night one night when I had a particular song in my head. I had a lot of fun writing this, so suspend your disbelief as much as you do with anything rvb, and enjoy. :)

For the first time in weeks, it’s stopped raining. 

Wash tips his head back for a moment, admiring the star filled patches of night sky that have begun to shine through the gaps in the receding clouds. It won’t be long before they come creeping back again, he knows that much— assumes that whatever season they’ve just crossed into on this planet probably has more to throw at them, but —

It’s about _time._

Wash loves rain. He loves rain, no question about it, but the monsoonal, torrential nature of the downpours that have threatened to flood them out of their little home at the crash site — that actually _did_ flood red base — are just that _little bit_ over the top.

When the rains began, they were met with a general sense of relief. Water was kind of important for survival, so they’d set about collecting as much of it as possible, and Sarge had even developed a crude water treatment system that allowed them to store it and use it whenever the need arose. That had been wonderful. Truly, one of the first good things that had happened to them since they’d arrived where they had. Wash is grateful for it. He is. It’s just…

There didn’t seem to be an off switch.

The skies had opened and they hadn’t _stopped,_ and soon they had more water than they could use in a year. Not that they would be there that long. It’s possible, Wash muses, but surely they'd all collectively suffered through enough that it meant some kind of break was due.

It wasn’t just him. They’d all been dragged across planets on a journey that wasn’t even really theirs, and they just wanted somewhere to rest. Somewhere to call home. 

This wasn’t it. Especially, Wash thinks, as the sound of a loud crash makes its way down to him, when all seven of them — eight, if you include Lopez’ head — were squished into blue base.

Donut’s voice rings out, clear and bright and with a note of a wince to it. “ _Sorry!_ I asked Caboose to stop leaving buckets everywhere, but… anyway, it’s just me! False alarm.”

Wash represses a sigh and puts his hand to his helmet. “Understood,” he says, somewhat wearily, and eyes the clearing night skies with the hopes that _sooner_ rather than _later,_ they could get the reds back to their own base.

It hadn’t exactly been his _choice_ to let them in, after all.

He remembers being in bed, not sleeping like he definitely was supposed to have been, when he’d heard the first unusual noise. To be fair, even over the rain a jeep engine is very distinct, so he hadn’t been too surprised when he’d padded out to the entryway with his rifle in hand and been met with the red team.

Grif had emerged through the thick sleet of rain first and pushed his way past Wash, cursing and drenched to the bone. Simmons had been more practical and dressed in his armour, except for his helmet, which he held loosely. His curls were flattened to his head, but he’d seemed unconcerned, instead turning to face Tucker and Wash once he was safely inside with a serious expression.

“Sorry. Red base flooded. And I don’t trust Sarge’s idea of creating a heat generator by hooking up the Jeep batteries. I heard Lopez say something about _‘terminado’_ when he suggested it.”

_“Si. Muerte.”_

Lopez’s intonation came floating in from outside, where his head was tucked securely under Sarge’s arm. Sarge, in turn, had his heels dug in to the ground. He was dressed in full armour, as was Donut, who was straining to push him the last few steps closer to the entrance of blue base.

“Come _on,_ Sarge! Just for one night, somewhere warm and dry… _please?_ Just think, you can get a first hand understanding of the intricacies of the enemy base!”

Sarge had eased up on his defense enough for Donut to push him to the entrance where Wash had stood, Tucker peering curiously from behind his shoulder.

“These dudes?” Tucker demanded. “No way! They’ll just mess all our shit up, and probably go through everything!”

Sarge had stopped digging his feet into the ground and began leaning slightly forward.

Donut cheered. “It’ll be like a big slumber party!” 

Sarge slammed his feet down a few inches from the threshold to blue base.

“ _Nooo_ ,” came Donut’s miserable cry, muffled under the relentless pouring rain. He hung his head but resumed trying to push Sarge, to no avail.

Sarge shook his head resolutely. “I’m not stepping another foot closer. This is all their fault in the first place! Donut, don’t you see?”

“Not really,” Donut puffed out, and he gave up trying to push Sarge entirely.

“You’re blind!” Sarge crowed, and turned and jabbed a finger at Wash and Tucker. “Who knows what nefarious rain dances these lot have been conducting!”

Wash had shared a look over his shoulder with Tucker. “ _Rain dances?”_

“That’s right! While we’ve stood helplessly by at our base, trying to maintain our defenses with the limited supplies you left us! ' _Fixing the radio’_ my great uncle! You knew we’d be put in a vulnerable position and you left us with nothing but sandbags, by god. Isn’t that right, _Agent Washington?”_

“Yes," Wash sighed. "We left you sandbags. Maybe you should have used them."

“Yeah,” Tucker snorted from behind him. “They definitely would’ve patched the giant fucking hole you had.”

“Hey!” Grif’s indignant cry came from behind _them_ , where he’d shaken his long hair out and left splatters of rain all over their kitchen table. “Don’t start throwing terms around like “ _hole_ ” or _“structural integrity”_ or “ _huge weak point”._ There’s absolutely no need. It was a good base, the rain was just too much for it. We can’t take the blame for that, Simmons.”

Simmons frowned at Grif. “Don’t drag me into this with you. _I_ didn’t design the huge hole in the wall. Now come on, we’d better go set up a perimeter and establish the all clear so Donut can get Sarge in here, I dunno, sometime tonight.”

Wash had ordered Tucker to stay where he was, and gone and dressed into his armour. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them…

It’s just that they weren’t Tucker and Caboose. He may be able to let his guard down around them sometimes, but even if there wasn’t something _off_ about the crash site, the midnight spectacular appearance of the reds reminds him that anything can happen.

_Anything can happen._

Like the clouds pulling back from the sky to let beams of moonlight shine through, reflecting off the wetness of the grass to create a million little diamonds glinting up at him. Before he even really knows it, he’s taken his helmet off, and the feeling of the wind blowing through his hair is just... nice. 

He takes a step forward, then another. The grass beneath him is soft but spongy. He can tell it’s firm through his armour, but it’s got that little bit of give, that little _spring_ to it—

He stops when he realises he’s bouncing on the grass. With a quiet, self-conscious clearing of his throat, Wash returns his gaze to the glistening sight ahead of him, and takes a few moments to appreciate it before he goes to resume his patrol. 

But his mind… it doesn’t _wander_ , Wash’s mind doesn’t wander anymore — no, it just… _strays,_ down a path that it hasn’t gone down in years, a path of almost forgotten memories and barely there stories, experiences, flashes of a life he’d lived what felt like a millennium ago. 

They’re barely his memories anymore. They’re certainly not anything worth dwelling on, or trying to dredge up from his damaged psyche. He shakes himself lightly, takes one last look at the moonlight illuminating everything in front of him, and turns once more to go.

Donut pops up beside him. “Thinking about something, Wash?”

Wash’s gun jerks up before he can stop it, and his fingers are clenched tightly as he lowers the barrel. “Donut! You know not to sneak up on me. And I— I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

Donut puts a hand on his hip, and Wash can feel the look he’s being given through his helmet. “Wash, it’s usually impossible to sneak up on you, so that must mean you were deep in thought about something. Plus, I’d know that look anywhere! That dreamy, star filled gaze… it has to be something romantic, and you’re not quite there with Tucker yet—”

“Excuse me?”

“— _plus_ , just look at this sight! The beautiful pearly moonlight cascading over everything, the perfect feel of the grass even through our armour… You were thinking about dancing!”

Wash fixes Donut with a blank stare. “I really wasn’t, Donut.”

Donut takes his helmet off just to roll his eyes at him. “Maybe you don’t know it yet. Either way, _I’m_ certainly thinking about it now!”

Wash nods once, then shifts uncomfortably. “Right. Well, I should get back to patrolling. And you should get back to your posted lookout.”

“And I will!” Donut says brightly. “Right after a quick dance.”

Wash blanches. “A _what?_ Donut, we’re— this isn’t the time— or the _place—_ ”

“It’s okay if you can’t dance, Wash! I’ll show you. We are absolute _pro’s_ by now.”

“That’s quite alright,” Wash manages, and gets a step backwards before he pauses. “Wait, who’s we?”

Sarge pushes past him from out of nowhere to stand next to Donut. “Why, red team of course! Although those blues aren’t half bad. Come on, Donut. Get with it!”

Wash takes a moment to be thankful that at least Sarge is in full armour as well, for whatever reason considering he was supposed to be sleeping, but at least it means they’ll be safer if something unexpected happens.

 _Something unexpected_. Wash swallows the shocked lump in his throat and tracks Donut and Sarge with his eyes as Sarge steps up to Donut, then _behind him,_ wrapping his arms around Donut’s armour and pausing there for a moment. 

Then, before Wash can do anything rational like hightail it out of there, they begin to move, their bodies working in unison. They take several small steps forward before they move back, their steps beginning to quicken in pace.

Something unexpected was happening _right now,_ but Wash hadn’t received any training to deal with this particular scenario. 

“Wait, guys,” he manages, as Donut and Sarge whirl past him into an exquisite dip that has Donut beaming with pride. “Hold on…” 

They ignore him.

“Still got it,” Sarge nods to himself, as they glide across the wet grass in perfect synchronisation. 

Donut rolls out along Sarge’s extended arm, then back in again. “All that training really pays off, Sarge!” 

Sarge pulls Donut to an abrupt, yet graceful stop. “By God, you're right! What am I doing? This is a _perfect_ opportunity to rekindle an old training drill.” Before Wash can stop him, he’s tilting his head back and amplifying his voice through his helmet. “Attention Red Team! Operation Foxtrot Tango has begun!”

Wash takes several short breaths that are meant to calm him, but do little to ease the irritation that flares up rapidly as Sarge’s voice echoes through the night.

“ _What_ are you doing?” he hisses through clenched teeth, and steps toward Sarge. “Stop that! Give me your helmet, or turn it off for god’s sake!”

“But I’m not done!” Sarge says, amplified voice _right_ in Wash’s face, and he can feel himself heat up with a rush of anger. “ _Blue team!_ That goes for you too, you lazy, no good two left footers!”

Wash swipes for Sarge before surprise kicks in and he stops short. “What? Why are you calling for — You know what, it doesn’t matter. Sarge, give me your helmet or turn the megaphone off _now_. You don’t know if anyone might hear us.”

“Wouldn’t that be the point?” Sarge asks him gruffly, but it’s at normal volume this time, and Wash takes a step back and scrubs tiredly at his face. 

“Yeah,” Donut chimes in. “We want someone to notice us, so if they somehow heard that and they’re on their way, that’s a good thing!”

Wash doesn't have it in him to argue. His ears are ringing from Sarge’s microphone being blasted in his face, and now he’s going to have to deal with Caboose and Tucker being woken up before their shift on patrol. Caboose takes a _long_ time to get to sleep, and that thought plays on his mind as he fixes the reds with a weary glare before he gestures backwards in the general direction of blue base. 

“Just _what_ is Operation Foxtrot Tango, exactly?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Sarge tells him, somewhat uselessly in Wash’s opinion, as the sound of movement reaches his ears.

Donut seems to know that Wash is close to screaming point, because he gestures grandly to himself and Sarge before he speaks. “It’s what you just saw! It’s when red and blue teams get together and d—”

“ _Practice dexterity_ ,” Sarge cuts in, and he tilts his head towards Donut warningly. “To put our skills to the test and further develop our abilities in dexterity, agility, speed, strength, perception, focus, and—”

“And to appreciate the classics, of course!” Donut interrupts. “Sarge just loves listening to his old records.”

“Ahem! _Donut!_ I _think_ what you’re trying to say, is I love punishing the blues! And Grif! And I knew they hated my superior tunes, as well as working hard, working _together_ , working at all, using more than two brain cells—”

“Except me, sir,” Simmons announces, as he steps out of the base. “I love _all_ of those things, especially the last one.”

“Right, right.” Sarge waves it away. “My point is, it was an effective form of punishment, and even subordinates like Simmons needed to be punished sometimes too.”

“You said it was because you needed a dance partner for Grif! My cyborg arms were the only ones strong enough to lift him!”

Simmons crosses his arms, but Wash is distracted by the unhappy realisation that Simmons isn’t wearing _any_ armour. He’s clad only in a standard set of military issue pyjamas, although he doesn’t shiver in the cool night air. Grif, on the other hand, steps his bare feet onto the wet grass and groans loudly.

“Seriously? We couldn’t do it inside, somewhere warm and dry?”

“It’s a further test of your balance and coordination, to maintain yourself on a slippery surface in unfavourable conditions,” Sarge growls. 

“Also it’s just _so_ pretty,” Donut sighs dreamily. “Wash had the right idea.”

“I had nothing to do with _whatever_ the _hell_ is going on here,” Wash stresses, and for a few seconds he can't help but want Tucker to come out here so he’s not outnumbered so heavily. Not while he’s this confused and not entirely certain he isn't dreaming. 

“Of course not,” Sarge nods. “This training went on long before you ever showed your pretty little Freelancer face around here.”

Wash is pretty sure he’s still shell-shocked from seeing Donut and _Sarge_ dancing together, because he's not sure of which part of that sentence disconcerts him most. However, he doesn’t get a chance to ask any more questions, or preferably dismiss them all to bed, because at that moment Caboose arrives, Tucker in tow. Wash doesn’t miss the way Tucker’s face brightens at the scene in front of him. 

“Oh, cool. I thought Caboose was sleeptalking again. It’s been _ages_ since we’ve had one of these. About time you idiots do something constructive.” He directs the last part to the reds as he stands by Wash’s side.

“Hey, fuck off. You get to capitalise off our coolness while we’re sharing a base together,” Grif says. “Payment enough.”

“Not even remotely, dude. Anyway, what caused all this? I mean, not complaining, just curious.”

“Wash was thinking about dancing but doesn’t know how, so Sarge and I had to show him how to do it right,” Donut informs him.

Tucker tilts his head back and laughs. “Wow, really? No offense, but I don’t entirely believe that.”

“And you shouldn’t.” Wash hurries to take control of the situation again. “Nothing like that happened, and nothing is _going_ to happen, because we are all going to disperse and returned to our assigned posts — or wherever we’re meant to be,” he says, before Caboose can do anything more than frown at him. 

Tucker shakes his head. “No way. I need some practice. When we get off this planet and I need to pick up chicks, I’m going to be rusty.”

That, at least, makes sense. Wash takes a moment to push back all the other questions that are on the tip of his tongue — _how did this start? How long has it been going for? Are they actually saying they danced together?_ Not to mention: _could they get along for that much time working together without killing each other?_

“Private Tucker,” he says instead, because both he and Caboose have come out without any armour on either and Wash doesn’t think he can handle repeating himself that they are on _unknown territory,_ with little to no information about _anything_ regarding their situation, and they’re all just standing there expectantly like—

Donut whirls over to Caboose. “Let’s start dancing!”

“Let’s begin _combat simulation training exercise codename Operation Foxtrot Tango,_ ” Sarge corrects quickly.

“For the record, I don’t enjoy this,” Grif grumbles, but he stalks to a spare patch of grass and stares at Simmons expectantly. 

“Maybe if you’d ever try being the guy in it for once,” Simmons shoots back, but he takes his place opposite him. 

“You mean, do more work? No thanks, Simmons.”

“I’m a _lot_ lighter than you,” Simmons points out. “It would take you less than half the effort it takes me—”

Grif hums loudly to drone him out. “Not listening.”

“Shut it, you two,” Sarge orders. He’s taken several steps back and placed himself next to Wash. “Now, since you’re obviously not as well versed in this aspect of training as the rest of us, you can sit this one out.”

It takes Wash a moment to realise he’s talking to him. “Excuse me? Sit this one— I’m sorry, I think you’ve been mistaken. I’m sitting _every_ one of whatever you’re doing here out.”

“You say that.” Sarge doesn’t need to say anything more. The tone underlying his voice implies otherwise.

That’s about all Wash can handle. The ridiculousness of the situation is starting to worsen the headache forming at his temples, and he thinks he’s held his patience for long enough, thank you very much. 

The moment Donut and Sarge started their undeniably graceful dance across the grass should have been the breaking point. Instead, he’d stood there and listened to their nonsense, tried to wrap his head around this insane story about how they used to dance together back when they were enemies in Blood Gulch, and now—

Without any further cue, Caboose and Donut take a step towards each other, then another, until they’re chest to chest — or rather, in Donut’s case, head to chest. Caboose slowly wraps one arm carefully around Donut’s shoulders, then extends his other out for Donut to reach and grab onto. Together, they strike a dramatic pose.

That’s it. Wash shakes himself and turns away. “Whatever fever dream scenario that’s going on here, I’m. Nope. I’m out.”

He’s stilled by Tucker’s hand landing on his armour. There’s a force behind it, a surprising pull, so he turns back, and immediately wishes he’d taken a moment to put his helmet back on as he sees Tucker’s dark eyes aimed up at him. 

“Wait,” Tucker says. “Just stay for like, ten minutes. If you still hate it or you’re still convinced you’re losing your mind, fine. But I really think this could help you loosen up.” Wash frowns and Tucker jabs a finger in his face. “See! That right there. You need to relax! Just for like, once in your life."

Wash can’t count how many times he’s heard that directed at him in the last few weeks. It does nothing to convince him to want to stay, but he has to admit he is a little curious, because Sarge and Donut had been so well coordinated and fluid in their movements… 

Maybe Sarge was right. Perhaps there could be something pulled from this that could be used for training purposes. Something _beneficial_. Yes.

He purposefully keeps his eyes trained away from Tucker’s imploring ones, and clears his throat.

“I suppose I could watch.”

Tucker flashes him a grin but says nothing more. Wash wonders, distantly, if that was as unusual as it seemed, but with one look back at the scene in front of him — Donut and Caboose, still holding the same position, and Grif and Simmons, a foot apart, waiting on some unspoken cue — he was reminded that there was a whole _lot_ of unusual going on lately.

Sarge nods, once, and begins waving his hand as if he’s conducting an orchestra. It seems to mean something to the pairs on the grass because they begin to move in tandem as Sarge begins vocalising, “Step, two, three, four, _step_ , two, three—”

Wash hesitates, then waits a moment more to ensure Sarge isn’t going to look away from his orchestration, and whispers down to Tucker. “So are you finally going to explain to me just what exactly is going on?” 

Tucker gives a quiet snicker. “This used to happen every first Sunday of the month. At first it was just the reds, but then Church was spying on them one time and sent Caboose down to do some recon because _something_ weird was going on, we just didn’t know what, but then he didn’t come back for ages—”

“And that’s how I got my new dance partner!” Donut calls, from where Caboose has just finished spinning him, before they return to their more restrained step pattern.

“My sisters taught me quite a lot,” Caboose confirms. He doesn’t seem remotely out of breath, despite that Donut is in full armour minus his helmet. It's still lying on the grass next to Sarge, who’s still directing their movements.

“And down and _dip—_ ” 

Donut manages to look sad as Caboose dips him. “I sure wish I’d had seventeen sisters.”

“No you don’t,” Grif calls, and Wash finally looks at them.

He swears his vision flickers at the edges for a moment, a pulse of disbelief trying to dissuade his mind from accepting the scene his eyes were showing him, until finally he comprehends what he’s looking at.

Grif and Simmons are a graceful blur, Simmons' speed driving them forwards as he twists, dips, pirouettes, and twirls. Wash doesn’t know much about the theory of dancing, but Grif seems to be an extension of Simmons, a _bored_ looking one, as his feet seem to carry him in perfect tandem everywhere Simmons steps. 

Even his _body_ , Wash realises. It seems to anticipate every one of Simmons’ moves and prepare itself accordingly. All while Grif’s expression never shifts, even minutely, from bored.

Except when a flash of annoyance crosses it momentarily. “Sisters are the worst,” he’s complaining, as he marches down an invisible line with Simmons, then turns back again. “Just one is bad. That many? No wonder Caboose is so…”

“Strong,” Donut supplies helpfully from across the grass, after a few seconds of awkward silence. 

“Very strong,” Caboose agrees, and as if to prove it, he picks Donut up and lifts him above his head. He twirls him for a few seconds, effortlessly swapping Donut from one hand to the other, before he bows, straightens, and _then_ lowers him. 

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “I forget sometimes, y’know?”

Wash knows. He’s not sure exactly how much Donut would weigh with his power armour on, but it wouldn’t be anything the rest of them could lift. Caboose is strong, Wash knows that much. He’d always had a natural strength that came with his large height and big build but it’s more than that. Beyond the incredible display of strength, Caboose is — he’s almost elegant, Wash thinks with a start.

Fluid would be a closer word, he decides after a moment. The usual clumsiness and apparent lack of forethought that plagues his every move is gone, _vanished_ , without even a trace to give it away. His movements flow, in a way Wash has only seen in the depths of battle, when all humour is pushed aside and his gentle nature takes second place to protecting them.

Wash’s eyes travel back to Sarge for a moment. Maybe it did go beyond whatever idea he probably had that brought them all together like this.

Like _this_ , Wash thinks, and pauses for a moment to look at the soldiers in front of him as everyone begins to slow.

Sarge begins a clap that gets more sarcastic as Grif and Simmons come to a stop. Simmons is panting and sweaty, but his eyes are shining, an element of pride that can be glimpsed even from where Wash is standing. Grif, unbelievably, is completely fine, without a single sign of being out of breath. 

It’s so unlike his usual self that Wash is tempted to ask about it. Maybe later, he decides, and catalogues the thought away. For now he’s just happy to see something else they can use, another potential advantage if it comes down to it.

“Hey, Grif,” Simmons was saying, “Sarge told you to lose weight, not put it back on.” 

Grif lifts a lazy middle finger to him as they step apart. “Yeah. Because when _Sarge_ tells me to do something, I listen. Right.”

“You sure listened when I told you to work on spreading your centre of gravity out for Simmons’ lifts,” Sarge points out. “Anyway, not too shabby of a job. Could use a bit of work, but—”

 _“You two could always use some work,_ ” Grif and Simmons intone together.

“Hrmph. At least your synchronisation is gettin’ somewhere.”

It takes Wash a moment to notice Tucker nudging his shoulder. “Wait here,” he tells him, and Wash only has time to blink in response before Tucker’s gone.

A few seconds later he emerges back through the doorway, a helmet held under his hand.

“Oh.” Wash blinks, surprised. “Good. I’m glad to see you’re…” He trails off as Tucker steps into the moonlight, grinning, and hoists Lopez’ head until it’s above his own. 

“Blah, blah, something about taking precautions I’m sure. Whatever. More importantly, because I knew you were standing there analysing everything for strengths and how we could utilise it and application on the battlefield—”

Sarge visibly twitches. “That’s what it’s _for!”_

“— _but_ I also know how to get you to stop. And maybe get you to, oh, I don’t know, fucking _relax_ for the first time in your life?”

Wash draws himself up at Tucker’s words, uncertain where any of this has come from. “First of all, I doubt you know how to ‘get me to stop’—”

“He doesn’t even know how himself,” Grif snickers, and receives a low five from Simmons.

“Alright! Stop.” Tucker scrunches his eyebrows and shakes his head at him. “Look, don’t argue with me on this. You’re lying to both of us if you honestly believe it’s healthy to be so wound up all the time. But it’s not about that. “

Wash thinks back, hears the echoes of arguments with Tucker run around in his head, snatches of _all the tension_ and _constant vigilance_ and _you’re going to give us both a heart attack if you don’t chill the fuck out, Wash._ He opens his mouth to respond but Tucker is quicker.

“We aren’t going to sit here and make you. We aren’t even going to try and convince you. Either take the plunge, or don’t. And miss out.”

Something stretches out inside him, painful with how thin it pulls, how close it comes to breaking. “It’s not that simple,” he says, and now he’s just talking to Tucker, even though it’s not about him, has nothing to do with him really, he was never a part of this, but now Tucker’s taking it on as a personal mission to make him prove he can _relax—_

He finds his voice again. “We can’t have everyone out of armour, vulnerable, listening to music in the _middle of the night_ —”

“Sarge and I are in armour,” Donut points out, thankfully before Wash’s voice can rise any higher in pitch. “We can keep an eye out. I’ll just pop my helmet back on and we’ll keep watch. I’ll go stand guard on the radio tower, and Sarge can stay down here.”

Tucker stares him in the eye, daring him to argue. There’s a smirk on his lips but it looks like it’s been plastered there, a mask to disguise his genuine frustration. Wash feels the tight thing inside him pull even tighter, fraying at the edges, and he doesn’t have time to wonder what it is because it makes his chest feel constricted — so much so that his heart misses two beats.

Tucker’s been frustrated with him. Wash _knows_. He’d heard enough about it to fill any silence, suffered through enough hours of Tucker being pissed at him, had been subjected to every variation possible of _just give yourself a break,_ had raised his own voice enough to make it hoarse in response because that wasn’t how it worked. He couldn’t just relax, when everything was a mystery and the unknown usually turned out to be deadly. There were never enough of them, it was never secure enough of a perimeter, they weren’t good enough to take on whatever could be thrown at them; there were a million reasons why he couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

 _What’s your excuse this time,_ Tucker's look seems to say. _What now?_

Wash falters. He looks around at the darkness threatening to press in, held back only temporarily by the light of the moon. He looks at the unprotected, unarmed men around him, and every instinct in him tells him to put his helmet back on and resume his patrols. He looks at Tucker, and he—

He _looks_ at him. He doesn’t mean to stay looking, to draw out what was meant to be just a glance, but he gets caught in the weight of Tucker’s gaze, the narrowed eyes that don’t hide the unhappy twist to his lips, or his expectation that Wash will leave. That he will let them down again because they need more than just someone trying to be a leader.

Not just somebody to protect them, but someone worth being stranded here with.

He waits a moment, tests to see if the decision will leave him. Then — 

“So who’s my partner?"

Tucker only misses a beat before he throws Lopez to Sarge and steps forward with a flourish. “Lavernius Tucker, at your service.”

Wash sighs. “Of course,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, but it gets caught in his throat in a way that only he feels before he forces it out.

“Cue the music,” Donut calls, as he climbs up the ladder to the radio tower.

Lopez gives a grunt that sounds undeniably annoyed as Sarge lifts him up and speaks into his visor like he’s a radio.

“Lopez. Music-o. Pronto.”

“Ugh. Si. Tocaré música. En español.”

“Good shot, Lopez! Volume ten!”

After a moment, a tune starts playing. It doesn’t seem to matter that the words are in Spanish, because the beat behind it is something Wash can move to, catchy and semi-upbeat.

Tucker just winks at him. “Come on, then. Did they teach you how to dance when they taught you how to kick ass?”

“No,” Wash says simply, and they fall into the same position Donut and Caboose had earlier. “This, I learned myself.”

And they’re _off_ , with a fluttering of leaves still wet from the seemingly endless rain. Wash is careful not to slide on the wet grass, but Tucker seems to use it to enhance his movements, to add speed and a certain air of carelessness that the tightness of his body and the concentration on his face betrays.

He’s a good lead, Wash notices, attuned to his movements in a way that told him even if he hadn’t been so synchronised with Tucker’s, their movements still would have flowed uninhibited. Tucker would lead him, _does_ lead him, guides their steps and bodies under the beams of moonlight.

For a moment, Wash can’t help but marvel. In the flashes of seconds passed, the instances between one moment and the next, his world spins around him and it’s just him and Tucker — Tucker’s chest underneath his hand, his breath blowing over Wash’s cheekbones, his arm firmly around him, holding him steady.

Over Tucker’s shoulder he sees a flash of Caboose’s smiling face, his hands reaching high up into the air in encouragement, catches the downwards arc of Sarge’s free hand as he waves it about as if he was guiding them. He sees Grif lean on Simmons, feels a moment of understanding, and then as he’s dipped, he sees storm clouds closing in on the moon and the stars.

He isn’t disappointed. They’ve got a bit more time in the moonlight, and even when the last traces of it are gone, the rain will come, and it’s the rain that brought them all together in the first place.

Tonight, he corrects himself. Since red base flooded, technically, but then, even before that — 

Before that, before _him_ , they’ve always brought themselves together. They’re just bringing him along for the ride. After all, it had been their idea to have him don Church’s old armour. He’d been ready to leave himself for dead.

His grip tightens on Tucker. It’s not an intentional movement, and he’s quick to loosen it, careful not to squeeze too tight. Tucker’s not wearing armour, just a thin long sleeved shirt and sweatpants that did nothing to cushion Wash’s against him. It makes him seem smaller than usual in comparison.

Wash thinks briefly of all the times it’s just him left in his armour, but he loses that train of thought as Tucker searches out his gaze and finds it.

Tucker’s _flushed_ , not with exertion but something else, maybe the same kind of excitement his eyes are alight with. It’s hard to tell, as they dance, as he allows Tucker to lead him as they step, step, step. He gets flung out — for a moment his heart pounds with uncertainty in his chest, but Tucker doesn’t let him go too far before he’s following him, using his momentum to slow down Wash’s acceleration until he can safely pull him to a stop in his arms.

“Thought I’d drop you?” he quips, a murmur in Wash’s ear.

Wash moves to swap them, slides Tucker under his arm and pulls _him_ flush. “Not at all,” he responds, just as quietly, and fights down a smile as he entwines their arms once more.

With Wash in the lead, it’s different. There’s more power behind it, more force that meets perfectly with Tucker’s natural agility, and they adjust so quickly that soon it’s as effortless as Grif had made it look. For a second, that makes him frown, and the inquisitorial look he shoots Grif’s way as they whirl past them makes Tucker laugh.

“You wondering how he does it?” he asks, and there it is again, that challenge, that _dare_ to speak his mind, to do what he ordinarily wouldn’t.

Wash thinks about responding, but the words take a few moments too long to come to him. Instead, he uses the opportunity to lean Tucker back, adjusting his movements as he reads Tucker’s reactions, and a second later Tucker’s an inch off the floor. 

His mouth forms a small ‘o’ as Wash lifts him back up, but he covers it with a cocky grin and moves quicker than Wash expects. Wash can read him, knows by the shape of his body what Tucker’s planning to do, and allows himself to be flipped into Tucker’s other arm. The dip isn’t as low as Wash’s, but it’s further down than he’d expected, and Tucker’s grin doesn’t fade even as he strains to hold him. Wash lets him, tests out the parameters of Tucker’s endurance when he's forced to support the added weight of power armour.

He opens his mouth to say something, but he feels Tucker begin to shake with the force of effort. He breathes out through the smile he didn’t realise was pulling at his lips, and wordlessly, Tucker wraps his other arm around him. In one fluid motion, Wash is upright again in his arms.

Then Tucker laughs. He takes a step back, shakes his dreads, and turns to take a bow.

Suddenly, Wash feels embarrassed. He straightens himself, then turns and looks at the expectant audience, as the sound of distant cheers reach his ears from Donut’s perch near the radio.

“Take a bow too, Wash!” Simmons encourages.

Wash feels himself heat up even more, so he launches into a lecture instead.

“You guys know you have some incredible skills?” he says, before he can think about it, when Tucker is a few steps further away. “Not in dancing— well, maybe, but in what you showed. Your abilities. You know, everything you all did here tonight can be used in the battlefield.”

Sarge nearly howls with frustration. “How many times do I have to say that that's the whole point?” 

“Right. Well, it’s true.” Wash scoops his helmet off the ground and pulls it on to cover the redness on up his cheeks. “I mean, Caboose, your strength is just— incredible. Really. If we keep working on that, and supplementing it with other skills, you’ll be a real adversary.”

“Yeah, I dance really well,” Caboose nods.

“And Simmons, Grif — I don’t know how you two do it, but you work together so well — you never question what the other person is doing, you have so much trust in one another. That’s really special.”

Grif shrugs. “The secret is Simmons does all the work. I just have to move my feet the tiniest amount.”

“Oh. Well, still. You work smarter, not harder. That’s an admirable skill, too.”

Donut's voice echoes down to them as he scrambles off the radio tower. “What about _me?”_ he demands, as he skids to a stop and pulls his helmet off.

Wash winces as Donut drops his helmet on the ground and puts his hands on his hips. “About what I expected,” he admits. “And you really shouldn’t drop your helmet like that.”

Donut deflates. “I’m not memorable in any way?” 

The way he dejectedly picks up his helmet and cradles it gives Wash a small, abrupt pang of guilt. For a moment he searches for something to say. “You’re… a really good dancer. Didn’t you already know that?”

“Well _duh_.” Donut rolls his eyes. “But praise is never wasted on me.” He flashes Wash a smile and makes his way over to Sarge.

Wash shakes his head, but the embarrassment he’d felt before had faded again, leaving a residual warmth spread out inside him that feels like it might stay for a little while, even into the longer, lonelier hours of the night.

As if hearing his thoughts, there are several drawn out moments of silence as the last of the moonlight disappears completely and leaves them in darkness.

“I can’t see shit. I’m going back inside,” Grif decides eventually. He turns and marches right into Simmons. “Simmons? Shouldn’t your cyborg eye be finding the way back?”

“I can’t do all the work all the time, dumbass,” Simmons sighs.

Sarge makes a pleased sound. “Good time to have night vision in m’ helmet. Good luck finding your way back, idiots.” He turns and heads for the base.

“You’re the one that called us out here in the middle of the night,” Grif grumbles, but he and Simmons begin trudging their way back inside.

Donut looks between Wash, then Tucker, then Caboose, and suddenly darts forward. “I’ll help you find your way back inside Caboose, don’t you worry,” he says graciously, as he loops his hand around Caboose’s arm and pulls him away.

“Okay, bye,” Caboose says, and then it’s only Wash and Tucker standing outside.

Tucker says something that Wash doesn’t quite hear. “What was that?” he asks, inclining his helmet towards him.

Tucker lifts his head, and Wash’s helmet allows him to see the expression on his face, the tilt to one side of his lips, and the way his eyes flash in the darkness.

“What about me?” Tucker repeats, and searches Wash’s visor as if he’ll find an answer there.

Wash’s throat is suddenly dry. He runs the words over in his mouth as if they’re a trick, before he tentatively spits them back out again. “What about you?”

Tucker smirks, and between the clouds, a gap of moonlight appears. He stares at him expectantly, and feeling suddenly foolish, Wash pulls off his helmet — it feels like Tucker was looking right through it, anyway.

“Come on. Am I as _graceful_ as Simmons and Grif? As naturally talented as Donut? I know I’m not as strong as Caboose, so come on. What’ve you got for me?”

Wash immediately regrets removing his helmet. He fiddles with it in his hands for a second, fighting the urge to put it back on, before he looks up and meets Tucker’s eyes. 

“You’re very confident,” he says. “If you use that speed and awareness of your surroundings—”

“I don’t mean in _fighting_. I mean in what the fuck we just did. When we _danced_ , Wash,” and he draws it out, like there’s something more to it, a suggestion that Wash doesn’t know how to read.

“You’re better when you’re not the lead,” Wash says, because he wants something to take that look off Tucker’s face, expects a _hey, when I’m with the ladies it won’t matter,_ but instead—

“That's cool. I don't mind if you lead me."

Wash feels a small shiver down his spine. “I’m not sure what to say,” he says, finally, slowly, because he can't conjure up anything when his mind is still stuck on the weight of Tucker's words.

Tucker seems fine with that. “Alright,” he says easily. “But Wash, next time?”

Wash is halfway turned to go, a step towards the base already, but he pauses. Turns back. 

“Next time, we do it with no armour.”

Images flash through Wash’s mind faster than he can register them, glimpses and ideas and promises of Tucker, Tucker in his arms and against his chest, warm against Wash’s bare skin, fingers grasping and their bodies entwined as they move—

He swallows back the sharp intake of air, but his response spills out of him far faster than he would’ve liked. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Tucker’s smile widens, and he brushes his shoulder along Wash’s chestplate as he moves past him. “Me too,” he says. Like it’s a promise.

As Wash watches Tucker disappear into the base, he lets his emotion flow through him, lets the excitement and anticipation thrum hotly through his blood and wrap themselves around him, settle into his bones. Despite the intensity of his emotions and the cold night air and the first droplets of the oncoming rain landing in his hair, he feels—

Relaxed.


End file.
